Page 29 of Played
Motherfucker.
He pours a splash into each of our mugs without me having to answer, and I stir before handing him one. Like the past three days, we drink our coffee in silence, eye-fucking each other over the rims of our mugs now rather than across the desk. I definitely do imagine what it would be like if I had a real fuck-it moment and threw my mug on the floor before pinning him to the wall by his throat. I’d hold him in place while I let my mouth and hands wander all the places my eyes do. Especially his cock, which I already know from experience is huge and lined with thick, lickable veins. I don’t let my eyes wander there often, but when I do, fuck if I don’t see the outline of that monster in his suit pants.
He drains his mug and places it back on the tray. And then he stares at me, his top lip trapped between his teeth like he wants to say something. Or maybe he’s thinking about pinning me to the wall by my throat, and that scenario isn’t any less appealing to me than the one I’ve been playing out in my head.
“I guess I’ll see you Monday” is what he eventually says. All that thinking to tell me he’ll see me Monday?
Swallowing my disappointment, I nod.
“Goodnight, Mason.” Is that disappointment I hear in his voice too? Or am I imagining it?
He walks out of my office, and I let out a long breath and scrub a hand through my hair. Whatever that was, his leaving is for the best. Even if my body remembers how good we were together, my brain will never let me get past the hurt he caused. I can never trust him like that again.
My dick is just going to have to get with the program. King Blackthorn’s perfect body and monster cock don’t negate the fact that he’s a giant douchebag and therefore totally off-limits.
Chapter
Fourteen
KING
Iwake up with a raging hard-on, and as usual, my thoughts immediately turn to Mason James. What I wouldn’t give to have those sinful lips wrapped around my shaft. I wrap my own hand around it instead, picturing his dark eyes when I tug hard. He was in good shape when he was younger, though much skinnier than he is now. But I’ve already gleaned enough about his routine to know that he works out six days a week, and I can only imagine how good he looks beneath those tailor-made suits of his. I can practically feel the taut muscles of his ass and how good it would feel to dig my fingers into them. To sink my cock into him.
“Fuck!” Precum weeps from my slit, and my balls draw up. I picture him the whole time. Imagine him on his knees for me, or with my tongue in his mouth, or have him bent over that damn desk he uses like a shield.
Light splinters my vision as hot jets of cum streak over my hand. I sink my head back into the pillow and blow out a breath. If only I had the balls to say something last night when we were drinking coffee and pretending we weren’t thinking about getting the other one naked. He might have told me to go fuck myself.
Or he might have ended up right here in my bed, with my cum inside him. That surely would have been worth the risk of rejection.
I’m not blind—I know he wants me. And he no doubt knows I want him every bit as much. But I suspect it’s a line he’s unwilling to cross without some significant pushing. I’m just not sure I have the right to push after what I did.
I roll out of bed and head to the shower. Amanda is taking a rare Saturday off, and I’m determined to get Grampa out of the house today for some sunshine. I’m equally determined to put thoughts of Mason out of my head for as long as possible.
“I don’t knowwhy I need fresh air,” Grampa croaks, then immediately starts coughing.
I stop pushing his chair and gently attach his oxygen mask, giving him a pointed look. “Really? I’ll give you three guesses.” His eyes tell me to go to hell, but he doesn’t have the breath or the energy to tell me with his words. “Seriously Grampa, being cooped up in that apartment all day isn’t good for you. Now quit whining and let’s have a little fun, you old goat.”
Ignoring his protests, I go back to pushing his wheelchair along the sidewalk. “Where are we going?” he huffs, arms folded across his chest.
“For ice cream.”
He makes a lip-smacking sound. “Can I get rum and raisin?”
“Yeah.”
“And whipped cream?”
“Yup.”
“And sprinkles?”
“Of course, Grampa.” Personally, I think rum raisin ice cream with sprinkles sounds revolting, but he can have whatever makes him happy.
Grampa grins at me,and I dab a smudge of rum raisin from his chin with a napkin. “Did you enjoy your ice cream?”
He purses his lips like he’s giving his response a lot of thought. His mask hangs on the armrest beside him. Today is one of his better days. He’s survived much longer than the doctors predicted, and we’ve settled into a routine together. And today is definitely a good day. The sun is shining. We got to eat some delicious ice cream. It’s the smallest things that make the biggest difference. “I’ve had better,” he finally declares.
I arch one eyebrow. “Oh you have?”
